


Getting Used to Gunfire

by cofax



Series: Life During Wartime [8]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: AU, Apocafic, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-15
Updated: 1999-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/pseuds/cofax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you get used to the end of the world?  Not <i>quite</i> post-colonization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting Used to Gunfire

The road is dark and bumpy, lit only by the headlights of the big truck. Trees, street signs, and abandoned cars rise up suddenly in the sidewash of the high-beams, then drop just as quickly astern. We are on a rural road somewhere in eastern Kentucky. The darkness around us is broken only by the light from our truck; there isn't even the halogen glow of a distant high school football game. There are no stars. 

I am curled in the far right corner of the front seat of the big truck. Bill's old shotgun is wrapped in my arms, a cold steel teddy bear. Fox thinks I don't know he unloaded it. I don't mind his concern, although I learned to handle a shotgun at fifteen; the gun isn't for protection. It's just that it was Bill's, and I need something solid to hang on to right now.

Dana is driving. Because she's so short, the bench seat is pulled up close to the dashboard, and Fox can't stretch out his legs. That's probably why he insisted on driving for so long, but Dana finally convinced him to switch about two hours ago. Now he's sleeping, his knees drawn up close to avoid the floor-mounted stick shift. I can tell that he's really only dozing: his eyes twitch open at every bump and groan of the old truck. 

We're all dirty and disheveled. We haven't showered since we left DC, and that was, oh, three or four days ago. Fox is pretty pungent; I try not to think about what I must smell like.

Dana taps the speedometer, glances back through the rear-view mirror. Next she reaches for the radio, then stops: nothing intelligible has been broadcast for two days now. Finally Dana shifts in her seat and glances sideways at Fox. She takes one hand off the steering wheel and tugs at his left arm.

"Mmh? What is it, Scully?" Fox mumbles, and tries to roll over, only to be blocked by the dashboard and stick.

"Water," Dana rasps. She clears her throat, and then says, more clearly, "I wanted some water, can you hand me one of the bottles?"

"Oh. Sure." He passes her a plastic water bottle from the floor. "It's about 10:30. You wanna stop for a break?" He cranes his head around to the left, peering at her face.

"No. Not yet."

No. We won't stop yet. 

So we drive, and drive, and drive. We can't stop. 

The wind mutters in the window, and I shiver.

**~+~+~**

Saturday

 

I didn't believe him when he called me, not really. I mean, he'd been rambling about conspiracies, and darker things, for years. I didn't think even Dana took it seriously; and she was his partner. If if she didn't believe, why should I? 

She changed after she went into remission, though. She stopped talking about her partner and his crazy theories. She pretty much stopped talking to me altogether. I watched her, tried to be there as much as I could, but she always was an independent one. Dana was never much like me, despite her good behavior. Dana was more like her father than my other children: she inherited the Scully stubbornness, with the iron backbone when she knew she was in the right.

I think she knew that Fox was right long before she admitted it to anyone, even herself. Not that it matters now. Now everyone knows he was right, God help us.

So I didn't really believe him, not the way he wanted me to. I did trust him enough to pack some bags, though, fill a cooler with some supplies, and take Bill's shotgun down from the attic. Billy wouldn't have it with Matthew in the house, and Charlie -- well, Charlie just wouldn't have it at all. I thought that there might be some sort of political unrest, militia activity, that sort of thing, that Fox had heard about through the FBI. That sort of thing I could believe in enough to fear, enough to leave town to avoid.

I called Billy, as he'd asked me to. It was difficult to talk to him. Finally I had him put Tara on the phone. She understood the fear, if not the reasons behind it. Eventually Billy promised to get them out of San Diego and up into the mountains for a few days. That was the best he would do. I pray to God that he did.

Charlie wasn't home. If any one of us was likely to survive, it would be Charlie, teaching school in Idaho. I have to hope so. I haven't been able to reach him since: the phones went down within hours.

**~+~+~**

Whispers in the darkness. It must be after midnight by now. I'm too old to sleep in the front seat of a car anymore, but if I said anything Dana would insist on stopping. I can't let them do that.

Fox -- no, Mulder ("Mulder," he had insisted, finally, after the first three hours in the truck, "Call me Mulder." "Then you'll have to call me Maggie," I replied) is driving now; I guess I must have dozed off after all. 

Dana is curled up on the seat, propped against Mulder's shoulder. This is something I rarely see. They don't touch each other when I'm around. I don't know if it's out of habit, fear of my reaction -- as if I'd care, they're not teenagers, for pete's sake -- or perhaps worry that I would feel somehow excluded.

I've long since given up trying to decipher their relationship. They aren't always good for each other; I've seen that. They hurt each other. I remember the open grief in Mulder's eyes that time when Dana was hallucinating. And last winter -- well, Dana didn't mention his name for months. But they also protect each other fiercely. I read somewhere that lovers are the keepers of each others' secrets. By that definition, regardless of whatever else they do, these two have been lovers for years.

I should be happy if they have found something to hold onto in the darkness; but all I am is tired. I miss Bill, Bill who is six years gone now, and wonder what he would have had to say about all this. He would probably never have listened to Mulder; he would have stayed in the house, or at his post, and died there. I think I'm glad he didn't live to see this, even if it means I am alone.

Mulder chuckles softly.

"What?" whispers Dana. She shifts upright and tilts her head over to the right, then to the left, stretching her neck. Bill used to do that. 

I have to stop thinking about Bill.

"What's so funny, Mulder?" Dana nudges him.

"This." He gestures randomly with the one hand.

"How is this funny? That we're running for our lives? That if anyone catches us they'll probably kill us *and* my mother?" Dana's voice rises, and she sounds angrier than I have heard her since the two of them showed up on my doorstep, sleeping bags in hand. She has been hiding her fear from me. She's protecting me. I should be angry, but I'm too tired and stiff. I close my eyes.

"But it is. I keep thinking we're in one of those cheesy cable sci-fi movies. And then I look over and see your mom, and it just breaks the mood. I mean, Mad Max didn't have to worry about carrying anyone's mother around with him. All those post-apocalypse movies have loner-heroes. Or a loner with a babe, of course." From his tone, I think he's smiling.

When Dana responds, the anger is gone: there is a wry amusement in the way she curls her voice. "Except in Road Warrior, where he had a whole village. And that feral kid."

"Oh, Scully. I should have known you were a Mel Gibson fan. Those cheekbones, those blue eyes--"

"-- that sexy accent!"

"Freedom!" he falsettos.

"Oh, please. Just because I like Mel Gibson doesn't mean I have to like *Braveheart.*" Now she sounds disgusted. I wonder why; it won a lot of awards. 

"Why not? Wallace was a hero, he even got the princess in the end. I thought it was kind of romantic."

There is a long silence. "That kind of romance I can live without. Sure, he got the princess, but only for one night, and then they eviscerated him. I guess I've come to believe martyrdom is overrated. I prefer the hero who does what he has to to survive, so he can come back to fight again."

"Heroes don't run away, Scully. " They're not talking about the movie. They haven't been for a while, I guess.

"You're such a romantic, Mulder. I think you need another definition of hero. Running isn't cowardice when the only other option is death."

"You think not?" His voice is dark. I open my eyes a fraction. There is no fear they'll notice me; their attention is entirely focused on each other.

"No. Running is surviving, and that's the best we can do right now." Dana slips her fingers through his where they grip the steering wheel. She drops her voice to a whisper again, a promise of sorts. "We're still alive."

He starts to respond, but before he does we see lights up ahead, around a curve in the road.

Mulder immediately douses the headlights and turns off the engine, shifting the big truck into neutral. As we rumble to a stop, he pulls off the road and into the bushes. 

We sit quietly for a moment. I open my mouth to speak, realize it's been hours since I said anything. "Why have we stopped?"

Dana flashes a look at Mulder, who says quietly, "If the power is outlawed, only outlaws will have power." 

Oh.

**~+~+~**

Sunday

 

The first place we stopped was a lost cause: a run-down farm in the Shenandoah Valley. No one was there, and it looked like the occupants hadn't left voluntarily. The building Mulder called a bunker wasn't much of a bunker, anyway; just a garage built into the hillside, with a dirt roof. 

Mulder moved cautiously into the garage, gun in hand, while Dana and I stayed in the truck, engine running. Dana had her gun in her hand. I knew she should have gone with him, but she wouldn't leave me. He came back out in only a few minutes.

"Nothing," he said, and heaved two heavy canisters into the back of the truck. "I grabbed some gasoline from one of the closets, but there's nothing else in there."

Dana nodded, her eyes sweeping the fields. It was just after dawn, and we had heard helicopters earlier. "We have to get moving, Mulder." 

Mulder stayed where he was, slumped against the side of the truck. His eyes were on the garage, the lids half-closed, as if he were sleepy.

"Mulder!" Dana snapped. "They weren't here. They went to get Susanne, and she's in Pennsylvania. They weren't here."

"Yeah, Scully, but somebody sure as hell was." He climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door.

**~+~+~**

Mulder insists on hiking through the woods to check out the lights on the road ahead. Dana starts to argue, then just shrugs into her jacket. I pull on my coat as well. Mulder looks at me strangely.

"Maggie, I don't think -- " Dana interrupts him.

"Mulder, we can't leave her alone. And I'm not letting you go alone, either." There is no amusement in her voice now. She sounds weary; I think this is an old argument.

"So we all go together." I look at both of them, trying to catch their eyes in the darkness. 

"Fine." Mulder does not look at me as he gets out of the truck, and fumbles in the back for a flashlight.

It is not far to the source of the light, but it is slow walking through woods in the darkness. We cannot risk using the flashlight very much. The countryside here was once farmed, but it's now overgrown. Every once in a while we stumble across an old stone fence, the granite slippery with moss and decaying oak leaves. Mulder helps me across the more difficult sections, although I know he must be even more tired than I am. If he's slept at all in the last two days, it's only been in snatches.

When we finally stop, we have made a large loop through the woods. The lights are on the road, maybe a mile from where we left the truck. We are a little ways up the hill, hidden in the trees. The lights are bright enough to illuminate our faces, even here. I look at my daughter. Dana is drawn, the skin of her face sagging with weariness and strain. I am reminded that she is no longer a young girl, and that even Charlie has some grey in his hair now.

I hope to God Charlie got the message I left for him. But where could he go? He's probably safer where he is now than he would be on the roads. No one is hunting for my sons.

We are about two hundred yards from the lights. We can hear voices raised, see some figures moving. They are dressed oddly, and it takes me a moment to recognize that they are in fatigues. Suddenly there is a gunshot. Mulder jerks, and Dana seizes his arm.

One of the men in uniform stands up, pulling something slowly backwards toward us. I realize he is dragging a body off the road. 

"Mulder, no." Dana whispers. "There's nothing we can do."

He shakes off her arm, his mouth tight, but doesn't move. After a moment she relaxes.

Nothing seems to happen for a while. I sit down carefully on the damp ground, grateful for a chance to rest. From here I actually have a better view.

It's a roadblock. There are sawhorses drawn across the road, several military vehicles -- jeeps, trucks, a Humvee towards the back -- and about two dozen men standing around with rifles. The lights are halogen lamps mounted on the back of two of the jeeps, and they are focused east, down the road we were taking.

If we hadn't seen the lights before we came around the curve in the road . . . 

There is a motorcycle laying on its side at the edge of the roadblock. The man they shot must have been riding that. 

Dana and Mulder crouch beside me, Dana on one knee, Mulder next to her. She grunts softly as she kneels, puts one hand on Mulder's shoulder, and removes a pine cone from underneath her knee with the other. "Thanks," she whispers, and settles down, peering through the damp foliage. Mulder nods, his expression bland, and his eyes rest on her for a long moment before he notices me watching him. He turns away.

Nothing happens for a long time. I doze off after a bit, leaning against the pine tree that is sheltering us. I wake to whispers again, but don't have time to decipher what they are saying before there is a familiar rhythmic sound in the distance.

Helicopters again. Dana flinches this time, and Mulder puts his hand on her shoulder. We can't even see the lights of the aircraft: there's no chance we will be spotted here in the trees. The helicopter lands on the road in front of the barrier. It is black with no markings that can be read in the darkness. I think there are guns, rockets, some sort of weapon, mounted on its sides.

While the rotors are still turning, a woman in a knee-length wool coat gets out and walks up to the roadblock. Her hair is caught up under a hat, but I cannot see her face. She speaks to a man at the barricade for a moment, then kneels beside the body at the side of the road. Her face is illuminated clearly for a moment as she turns the face of the corpse toward her. I do not recognize her, but Mulder sucks in a sudden breath.

"Oh," says Dana quietly. "Now *that* explains a lot." I glance at her, and her face is grim. More secrets that I don't want to know.

The woman stands up and brushes the dirt off her trousers. With a shake of her head, she turns back toward the helicopter. One of the men at the barricade asks her a question, but we cannot hear their voices over the helicopter. Shaking her head again, she waves off towards the west. Someone in the helicopter gestures out the window, shouts something at the woman, and she climbs aboard. 

The helicopter lifts off. Before the aircraft is even out of earshot, the soldiers have begun to disassemble the roadblock, throwing the sawhorses into the back of one of the trucks. One of them points at the motorcycle, but the one who spoke to the woman yells at him, and they abandon the bike where it lays.

**~+~+~**

Sunday

 

The second bunker we found was better-built, better-supplied, and better hidden. It took us more than two hours of fumbling along West Virginia backroads in the dark, frequently backtracking, to locate it. We got in remarkably easily, however, once Mulder showed his keychain to the grumpy man at the door of the old farmhouse.

We were led through the house and into a damp basement filled with broken appliances and the smell of mildew. From there we bent low and passed through a doorway cut into the foundation, and descended a steep but short flight of stairs. After a few more doorways, we emerged into a warren. Room after room was carpeted in a disgusting puce berber, lumpy where it had been laid over bare earth. The walls were surfaced in 1960s rec-room paneling, but painted a pale grey. Doorways were low, and few had actual doors after the series of bank-vault doors at the entrance. Most rooms were separated only by curtains.

Many rooms were clearly used only as dorms, and were randomly strewn with clothes and belongings. Once or twice I saw a figure comatose on a cot or futon. Eventually we came into a larger central room, which was noticeably colder than the rest of the complex. It was dimly lit, and filled with electronic equipment. Mulder stepped forward and began conferring in low tones with the greasy-haired older man sitting at a computer. 

Dana followed him. I just watched for a few minutes, at loose ends. After a while one of the young men bustling around the room offered me a chair and a cup of coffee. At least, he called it coffee. It was nice to sit somewhere that didn't move; we'd been on the road for almost 36 hours. I still didn't know *why* we were on the road, however. Every time I asked a question Mulder evaded it, and Dana -- well, Dana just looked uncomfortable.

After a while, raised voices captured my attention. There was a small crowd gathered around Mulder, five or six young men, most of them wearing dirty flannel shirts untucked over their jeans. Mulder looked unsettled. 

The shortest man, no more than a boy, said, "No, man, is it true? Did you really catch that fetish-guy in Buffalo with a silver dollar and three Mexican jumping beans?"

"Hell with that," another one said. "I wanna hear about Arecibo. Did you actually get one of Them on audiotape?" 

"I heard you let a serial killer go just so you could find out where he buried the last body---" 

Mulder recoiled so fast he spilled his coffee on his leather jacket. "Guys, another time, really. I gotta -- I gotta go talk to my partner." In the dim light and the flickering reflection from the electronics his complexion was pasty. He turned and dodged across the room to where Dana was standing in front of another electronic display.

I followed Mulder, and reached them in time to hear Dana say, "Mulder, look at this." She ran a chewed fingernail over the screen, tapping at various smoky dots.

"What is it, Scully?" Mulder loomed behind her, poking his head over her shoulder to get a closer look at the display.

"I don't really know. I've never seen anything like these. Excuse me," she said to the young woman at the next desk. "Can we get a map overlay on this display?"

"Sure," the girl responded, and within moments a series of green lines appeared behind the dots: it was a map of the mid-Atlantic states. 

After a moment to orient myself, I asked: "So those dots are cities? Washington, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Richmond?" 

I was behind Mulder, so I could not see his face, but I saw his shoulders tense up. It was my daughter, however, who answered me. "No, Mom. The dots are something at high altitude, something picked up by satellite imagery about an hour ago." She stopped, and there was a catch in her breathing.

Mulder finished the explanation for her. "The dots are something in the sky above the cities, Maggie, something about 50,000 feet up. Something really large."

"Like what?" 

"We don't know, Mom. Something that I wouldn't have thought the United States had the technology to produce." She turned and looked up at Mulder, and there was something very like fear in her eyes, but at the same time a small smile touched her lips. 

Mulder grimaced a little sheepishly, and murmured "Told you so," before turning away to speak with the one older man, who seemed in charge of this little high-tech platoon. 

Dana shook her head, said "That's three, Mulder," and headed for the door.

"Dana!" I said and grabbed at her arm as she swung past. "What's going on?" Her eyes had been on the door, and it took her a moment to focus on me.

"It's ok, Mom, I'm just going to move the car." With that she was gone.

She came back forty minutes later, scowling but satisfied. "It's as insulated as I could get it," she told Mulder, who was collapsed on the floor in a corner, nursing his own cup of lousy coffee. Whatever Mulder had said to the man in charge had resulted in a frenzy of activity. I had retreated to this same corner just to avoid being trampled. "They've got a garage built into the hill. I took out the electronics I could remove easily, just to be sure," Dana continued, and hefted a plastic garbage bag at her side.

Mulder nodded. "You get the laptops?"

Dana's lips pursed in annoyance. "No, Mulder, I left them outside to fry. They're on the table." She sat down heavily at my side, and rested her head against the wall.

"All right," I said. "I know I'm only an old woman, but would someone *please* tell me what's going on?"

Dana swiveled her head towards me, but just as she opened her mouth to speak, the lights flickered. They came back on again, then went out altogether. "Shit!" I heard from one of the young men, as his display went dark.

No one moved for several moments. Then there was a thump, a whir, and the lights came back on. There was an ironic cheer, and someone started walking around the room and turning off equipment. 

Mulder rolled his head toward Dana. "What effect do you think that had, Scully?"

She shrugged, but her face was pale. "It depends how high they detonated, and how many kilotons each warhead used. And what kind of missile it was." She paused for a moment, thinking. "I think we can safely assume that communications all over North and Central America are completely disrupted, and all unshielded electronic equipment within a 400-mile radius of a major metropolitan area has been fried." 

Mulder swallowed audibly while I tried to decipher what Dana had just said. "Do you mean that someone set off nuclear bombs? Dana? Is that what you just said?"

"Yes, Mom." Her voice was distant, and her eyes were fixed on her fingers. "Someone set off nuclear bombs in the upper atmosphere. Such an explosion disrupts electronics without immediately injuring the population, although fallout could be a problem later. It's a technique that's been known in theory for years, but this is the first time anyone's tried it in an occupied area."

Across the room, the greasy-haired older man was flicking switches on what looked like a ham radio. A red light appeared, and he began speaking rapidly into the microphone. "Dana? If electronics are disrupted, who is that fellow calling on the radio?"

Mulder wrenched his head around, and swore under his breath. "I knew it! I knew these guys were too stupid to live." He lurched to his feet and put a hand under Dana's shoulder. "Come on, Scully, Maggie. We have to get out of here."

"Mulder, we can't just leave ---" 

He shook his head.

"I already had that argument with him, Scully. *He doesn't believe me.* He thinks they're protected, that no one can backtrack the signal. He's an idiot and he's going to get us killed or worse if we stay here."

Dana shrugged off Mulder's hand, and marched right up to the older man on the radio. Mulder shook his head again, and instead of supporting her, started pulling on his jacket. He handed me my coat and picked up the laptops from the table as I watched Dana argue. When she was angry, I realized, she looked a lot like Billy. Not that it did her any good. After a few minutes she came to meet us where we stood by the door.

"Damned fool. You're right -- let's get out of here while we can." She turned toward the door, then paused, her eyes resting on the young woman across the room. Handing the garbage bag to Mulder, she said, "You go ahead and start working on the truck. I'm going to try to talk sense into some of the others. I'll meet you out there in twenty."

Mulder opened his mouth, then closed it at the determined look on her face. "Okay. Twenty minutes, then I'm coming back in to get you." His face was blank but a jaw muscle twitched as he led me out the door.

Dana met us at the truck eighteen minutes later, her face shuttered. She refused to answer Mulder's questions as she quickly re-installed the parts she had removed from the engine. I thought we were in a hurry, but as he reached for the door on the driver's side of the truck, Mulder froze for a moment. His face went very still, his eyes hooded, as if he were deep in thought. His hand, stretched out to the doorlatch, curled into a fist instead.

"Oh. Oh, fuck." He raised his fist, and brought it down slowly against the truck. "Those sons of bitches."

"What is it, Mulder?" Dana asked from the other side of the truck.

In a voice I barely recognized, he rasped, "The planes."

Dana looked thoughtful, and then, slowly, horrified understanding spread over her face.

"Oh dear God. All those people on airplanes, when the EMP hit." She put a hand to her mouth, and I began to realize what they were talking about. If the nuclear warheads destroyed all electronic circuitry in North America, all the planes in flight overhead, dependent upon their computers and electricity for navigation, for their very operation, would have -- would have fallen out of the sky.

"Mary Mother of God." I staggered against the truck. All those people, flying home from business trips, travelling to vacations and weddings, comfortably waiting for the dinner service or another martini -- and then the lights went out, and the plane began to fall, and the children began to shriek ---

Mulder ran his hands over his face. "We should have *warned* them, Scully. We should have at least *tried.*"

Dana closed her eyes. "Yes, we should have." Her voice was bleak.

We stood there for a long time in the dank underground garage, mourning the dead, before Mulder finally stirred. "We have to go; they'll be coming soon."

"*Who* will be coming, Mulder?" I tried to catch his eyes, but he gestured me into the truck with a half-mocking courtesy. Within a few moments we were in the woods. 

Just in time. As we barreled back down the road we had followed in only hours before, we saw the lights of helicopters flash by overhead. Mulder swore under his breath, and kept the truck moving at a hideous speed, its headlights turned off.

"Dana?" I said when it appeared we wouldn't be stopping anytime soon. "Where are we going?" Instead of responding, she looked at her partner, an eyebrow cocked.

Mulder answered me. "Far away. As soon as they get into that bunker they'll know we were there. We've got to get beyond the roadblocks fast."

Roadblocks? I realized that I had deceived myself. This was not random terrorism or militia activity, but something else entirely, if they were looking for *us*. "Fine," I said clearly. "While we're driving, you can tell me who we're running from. I'm not a child, and I am sick of the two of you playing twenty questions with me."

"Mrs. Scully, it's a long story -- "

"Condense it, *Fox*." I snapped. "Tell me why I'm better off in the front seat of a 1983 Chevy with poor shocks than I would have been at home."

"Fine, *Maggie,*" he snapped in return. Dana looked at him for a moment, and his face softened before he nodded grudgingly.

After a few moments, Mulder started to talk softly. He really did want me to understand, but even with Dana's occasional explanations, I ended up terribly confused. His missing sister, mine shafts filled with files, Dana's disappearance and cancer, smallpox vaccinations, mysterious train cars, Nazi experiments, the chip in Dana's neck, Melissa's murder, black oil, Russia, Antarctica -- it was too much. After about 45 minutes of this, I gave up.

"Stop." 

Mulder closed his mouth in mid-sentence. 

"I don't understand any of this, except that the same men who killed Melissa and gave Dana cancer are, you think, trying to undermine the government and take over the country." I took a breath. "Is that correct?"

I caught a glint from Dana's smile. I had surprised her. "Mulder?" she asked, her head cocked to the side.

He sighed heavily. "Yeah, that's about it, Maggie. Leaving aside the whole alien-invasion angle, which even your daughter -- despite her many encounters with the unexplained -- doesn't entirely buy."

"Then why aren't you in Washington, defending your country?"

They were both quiet. "Well?"

Finally Dana spoke, and it was the first time since the day she wept in my arms on what we thought was her deathbed that I had heard complete defeat in her voice. "They *know* us, Mom. They know everything about us. We would have been the first to die."

What could I say to that? I love my country; but I love my daughter more.

**~+~+~**

Within fifteen minutes the roadblock is gone, and the trucks have disappeared down the road, leaving us to share the night with an abandoned motorcycle and a corpse. After waiting another half an hour, we clamber down the hillside and onto the road. I am happy to see that Mulder seems to be moving as stiffly as I am, and then ashamed of my pettiness. It is truly not his fault that any of this has happened, and he probably saved my life by bringing me with them. I tell myself to say a rosary later, and then forget as I look down onto the face of the murdered man.

Mulder plays his flashlight over the body. A dark-haired man in his forties, he lays with his arms splayed. He wears dirty jeans, motorcycle boots, and a dark leather jacket. There is very little blood on his unshaven face, despite the round hole in his forehead. He looks like an ordinary man, someone who might work at a hardware store and help you pick out the right kind of wood for the birdhouse your son wants to build. I wonder who he was and why they killed him. 

I make the sign of the cross, meaning to say a prayer for the poor man's soul, but before I can even open my mouth, Dana has slipped her hand inside the leather jacket and removed his wallet. 

Her face is calm, thoughtful, as she hands the wallet off to Mulder and continues going through the murdered man's pockets. She finds a handful of bills, and hesitates a moment before thrusting them into her own pocket. There is a keyring shaped like Gumby in his front pocket, and after fingering Gumby for a moment, she hands that to Mulder as well. She rests her head on the dead man's chest and trains her flashlight up his nose. She shakes her head, slips her hands into a pair of thin plastic gloves she pulled from her pocket, and grabs one of the man's arms.

"Help me, Mulder," she grunts as she heaves at the body. I think she is trying to move the body into the bushes, but in fact she's trying to roll it over. 

Oh, dear God. The back of his head is gone. I don't have time to wonder why Dana is running her fingers over the back of his neck, before I have lurched into the shrubbery to lose what little I have in my stomach.

"Mom?" Dana's hands are cold on the back of my neck. Dana's hands, slippery in white latex, glistening with blood. I keep retching, although now the heaves bring up nothing but bile. Finally it ends, and I realize that I am on my hands and knees, my head hanging, my hair in my eyes, shuddering.

"Mom, I'm so sorry. I -- I forgot you're not used to this." I sit back on my heels weakly and turn my head. My younger daughter, the living one, the one who will never now give me grandchildren, is crouched at my side. She presses a plastic water bottle into my hands. She has taken the gloves off; there is no blood on the bottle.

I drink from it gratefully, rest the cool surface of the bottle against my forehead. That is what it means to be a pathologist, I tell myself sternly. You knew this when she started at the FBI. You knew this. *But I thought it would be paperwork, not bits of brain on the side of the road!*

Mulder has stepped away; I see his flashlight glint off the chrome of the motorcycle. "Scully," he says. "I think I can get this running."

She helps me to my feet and glances at him. "And then what?"

"Then we get it into the back of the truck. Might be useful down the road." With an effort, Mulder brings the bike upright.

"Mulder, I don't -- " she stops suddenly. There is an expression on her face that I have never seen before. It is as if she is trying to hear something very far away, something she fears. Her brows draw down, and she staggers, puts her hand to her head.

"Dana?" I grab her shoulders. "Dana, honey, what is it?" Her limbs have gone a little loose, and she tries desperately to keep her feet. "Mulder!" I call. "Something's wrong!" She grabs at my arm, but there is no strength in her and she begins to slump to the ground. I am not as young as I was; the best I can do is support her as she collapses.

Before Dana hits her knees Mulder has reached her side. He props her up, one arm wrapped around her body. "Scully? Scully, stay with me. What is it?" He uses his free hand to slap her lightly on the cheek and she focuses on him, her eyes tracking very slowly.

"Mul -- Mulder, I think they're coming --- " His face pales, and he spins around, still holding her, staring at the sky. Who is she talking about? Are the soldiers coming back? 

Mulder swings Dana up into his arms, and she curls an arm around his neck. He jerks his head at me and turns back toward the woods off the road. 

"Mulder!" I cry, and grab at his arm. He shakes me off. "Fox, what's going on? What's wrong with Dana?"

"It's a warning, Maggie. We have to get out of here now, or Dana will die ---" Whatever else he says is lost as he enters the forest. I follow, protesting.

"A warning of *what,* Mulder? What? Where are you taking her?" He ignores me, and charges straight up the hill through the brush. There is nothing I can do but follow, trusting that I will be able to keep up with him, burdened as he is with Dana's weight. 

Moving mostly sideways to keep branches from slapping Dana's face, Mulder leads me up the steepest slope of the hill. I stagger after him, pulling myself along with my hands, fearing I will be left behind for good. He manages to keep hold of his flashlight somehow, and the flickering light serves as my only guide; he seems almost to have forgotten I am here. I hear Dana talking, and he murmurs in response. I have barely enough air to breathe with, much less ask any more questions.

Eventually Mulder seems satisfied or exhausts his strength, and he staggers to a stop, settling Dana gently to the ground. We are much higher on the hillside than we were before, at the edge of a break in the trees.

It is almost daylight; although we are under cover, the road is clearly visible from here. I collapse next to Dana, who seems to be in a daze. I am still recovering from Mulder's mad race up the hill when I hear an odd low hum, reverberating in my diaphragm. It is not precisely a sound, more of a vibration in the air. Mulder tenses, and Dana squirms a little on the ground. 

"Gotta -- gotta ---" she says.

"Mulder, what is it ---" I whisper, suddenly conscious of the utter stillness of the forest around us. Mulder shakes his head roughly, waving me to silence. He is watching the road, his face blank.

There is something coming down the valley. It is above our heads and moving slowly, but it is not a helicopter. Then I see that it is not one, but three somethings.

In the dim pre-dawn light, they are matte black, soaking up the shadows and giving off no reflections. They look vaguely like the pictures I saw in the paper of the B2 bomber, but . . . different. My eyes slide off them, and I have trouble focusing. I can't tell how large they are. They are triangular, and appear to be nearly two-dimensional. They travel smoothly, slowly, following the road as it winds through this Kentucky valley.

I do not know what these craft are, but I think Mulder does. They stop and hover above where the roadblock was. I can hear my breath coming in gasps, and Mulder, his face now haggard with fear, has his hand over Dana's mouth. She is twisting her head back and forth, but her body is pinned under his. He catches my eyes with his, and I know that it could all end here, high on this hillside. 

His eyes are dark, desperate. He wants my forgiveness.

I close my eyes against the entreaty in his face. *Oh dear Lord, please look after my children, and grant them peace and safety in this ---* my thoughts are interrupted by Mulder's gasp. The flying things are moving again, faster now, heading east down the valley. In less than three seconds they are gone.

*Thank you Blessed Mother and all the saints.* I don't know what those things were but I know I don't ever want to see them again.

 

Dana doesn't really remember what happened. She comes out of -- whatever it was -- about the time we stumble back out onto the road. She doesn't say much, and gets that mulish look I remember from her high school days.

She shakes off my hand on her shoulder, irritably. "Mom, stop asking. I *don't remember.* The last thing I remember is examining the body; after that it's all fuzzy." 

"You're sure you're ok, honey ---" I start, still caught up in Mulder's fear.

"I'm *fine,* Mom. Leave it alone." She stalks off to the edge of the road, stands facing away from both of us with her arms wrapped around her. Mulder tosses me a wry grimace. 

A few minutes later we start hiking back to the truck, this time along the road. It is full daylight now, and Mulder is nervous. He wants to get under cover, but we are too tired for another cross-country trek. By the time we reach the old Chevy in its hideaway under the pines, we are all staggering with weariness. There is no point in trying to drive now; we are all too exhausted.

While Dana and Mulder speak softly, sitting in the sun on the tailgate of the truck, I make myself say a rosary for the dead, and for my sons, wherever they are. Then I fumble a Power Bar into my mouth, barely noticing the texture that made me gag the day before, and crawl into my corner of the front seat. 

When I awake, it is sunset, and the red glow of the western sky can be glimpsed through the thin needles of the trees around us. I am stretched full-length on the seat, my head resting on my jacket. One of the sleeping bags is unzipped and spread over me, and it slips to the floor as I sit up. I feel disgusting, and wish desperately for a hot shower and clean underwear. There are clean clothes in my bag in the back. I peer through the window into the back, and then decide to wait for a while: the back of the truck is occupied.

Mulder has shoved the trunks, bags, and assorted supplies to either side, and has made a nest in the bed of the truck. He is on his back, his head pillowed awkwardly on Bill's old duffel bag. Dana lies almost entirely on top of him, her cheek on his chest. They are covered by one of the sleeping bags and an ugly purple and yellow afghan I pulled off the bed in the guest room. His arms are wrapped around her, keeping her in place, and his eyes are wide open, staring at the darkening sky, where the stars are slowly coming into view.

 

****

~+~+~

The road is dark and bumpy, lit only by the headlights of the big truck. Trees and road signs rise up suddenly in the sidewash of the high-beams, and drop just as quickly astern. We are in North Carolina now, I think. There are no lights anywhere. It is overcast and there are no stars.

That's fine with me.

I don't want to see the stars any more.

**Author's Note:**

> The sound of gunfire, off in the distance,   
> I'm getting used to it now  
> Lived in a brownstone, lived in the ghetto,   
> I've lived all over this town  
>  \- Life During Wartime, the Talking Heads
> 
>  
> 
> I want to thank everyone who told us that they wanted more; Sheila Larkin, who makes me care about Maggie Scully; and my partners in apocalyptic fiction, Maria and Marasmus. Beta by ::deep breath:: : Maria, Marasmus, Wayward, Jesemie's Evil Twin, and Maggie McCain. Their beta-fu is the best, and I owe them greatly for their patience & support. That said, any errors of grammar, science, characterization, or logic can be laid at my door, not theirs.


End file.
